Free The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen

feathered across her legs, sending a tingle up her spine. As they rounded the curve to the Lodge, cello music floated through the trees. A man’s baritone voice and a woman’s throaty laugh buzzed through the drizzle like an electric current.
    At the base of the stairs, Poppy collapsed the umbrella and shook it out. Paper lanterns hung from the porch’s eaves, illuminated spheres in the darkness that made the slanting slivers of rain shimmer silver. One of the doors to the Lodge swung closed, and Etta was standing alone.
    She teetered up the stairs into the porch light’s yellow glow and unzipped her raincoat, wincing at the rush of cool air that flooded across her neck. The cello music emanated from the seams of the Lodge—a haunting melody that seemed too somber for a party.
    “Ah Loretta—an expert at masquerade.” Etta jerked her head up and stepped backward. Petra Atwell’s face danced with shadows from a swinging lantern, the embers of her cigarette glowing red. The bodice of her black floor-length dress plunged low in the front, revealing surprisingly ample cleavage for such a petite woman. She held a squat glass, and it caught the porch light—two translucent ice cubes floating in clear liquid. Next to her, Walker Ryan’s lanky frame emerged from the shadows and dwarfed Petra. It must have been their voices Etta had heard in the trees. Etta inhaled the sweet hickory of Walker’s cigar and smiled at her favorite resident author.
    Etta opened her mouth to correct Petra on her name then she realized what Petra had said. “Excuse me?”
    Walker pulled the cigar from his mouth and swirled it between his thumb and index finger. “Ignore her. She was just elucidating her rather cynical view of human social behavior for me.”
    “Trust me, I have far more cynical views than this. I merely contend that it’s plain deceit to dress in a costume and pretend to be witty when one is as boring as a Save the Children telethon.” She glared at Etta. “Don’t look like a bruised peach, Loretta. I’m not talking about you . . . per se. All parties breed liars. These unbearable literary soirees are the worst. Miserable bores who spend their days hypnotized by laptop screens masquerading as stars and starlets. Putting on airs, pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s pathetic. Wouldn’t you agree, Loretta?”
    Etta held Petra’s gaze for a moment, and then Walker’s booming laugh broke the silence. “Petra, you are as charming as a viper. Let this young woman enjoy her night.” He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray that was resting on the handrail. “Can I escort you inside?” Etta nodded, pulling her gaze from Petra as Walker opened the door for her. She stepped inside just as the cello melody ended on a low note. A round of muffled applause followed.
    The sconces in the foyer were low, casting a warm glow on the oak walls. Etta let Walker take her raincoat and hang it on a hook next to the door. The door to the great room swung open, and a cacophony of voices poured into the small space. Reed stepped into the foyer, came to a halt and looked Etta up and down. “Wow.” He pushed his wire frames up with his middle finger.
    “Well, hello Mr. Morinsky,” Walker said. “Will your performance be starting soon?”
    “Yes, Mr. Ryan.” Reed’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “The curtain will rise in forty minutes.” His squinty eyes shifted from Walker to Etta. He had on brown corduroys and a worn tweed blazer with leather patches on the elbows in place of his usual khakis and starched shirt. A layer of foundation glistened on his forehead and nose, and blusher colored his cheeks.
    Walker laughed, a booming echo. “I’m looking forward to it. Winston is one hell of a director. Julia and I saw his first Broadway show—must have been twenty-six years ago. He makes magic on the stage. If he’d move to Hollywood, I’d think about going to the show again.” He looked from Reed to Etta, and then